Paths More Travelled

Entry by: Paul McDermott

20th September 2017
Song Lyrics, rather than Poetry
(yes, I've written a melody accompaniment)
Hope basic formatting shows this as 8-line verses, each 'marked' by a variation on the final line

Paths more Travelled

Now once again country roads are calling And my old boots are full of holes
And I have just carved my secret symbol
Behind a roadsign at Westward Ho!
I'll leave from Cornwall and head for Scotland, Forgotten now winter's hungry days
I'll sharpen knives or I'll edge your scissors
I'll polish sunshine to pay my way

Where did my youth go? I can't recall it
But it was glorious, each day that passed I slept in flowerbeds along the roadside
Or in the arms of a pretty lass
With her it was my delight to dally
The scent of Spring in her lap it lay, I only sharpened her knives and scissors
But I got sunshine, and paid my way

For I was only a crazy tinker, Without a home or a resting place A petty thief, or a puppy stealer
And farmers slammed their gate in my face
So self-important, they knew their roots
Were planted in rich and fertile earth
I sharpened knives and I sharpened scissors
I polished sunshine and knew my worth

In those days poteen belonged to all men
'Twas cheap and cheerful, and bitter too!
The plants to spice it grew at the roadside
They gave some colour to every brew
Oh, drinking brothers, Oh late night singers
You drank yourselves to an early grave
But I kept sharpening knives and scissors
And picked absinthe on Midsummer's Day

Those who work daily will always judge me
A roving tinker who travels light But I'm a poet, and I'm a dreamer. And I'm a part of the summer nights
There are so many much better poets
Compared with them, I'm not worth a thing
But I can sharpen their knives and scissors
And thank them kindly to let me sing

Where are you now all the folk I once knew? Each pretty girl, every alehouse mug?
Half of you ended in Institutions
The rest died, drowned by the bottle's glug
But I am still hale and fresh and hearty! My hair's turned white, and my nose is red
While I still sharpen my knives and scissors
And polish sunshine to earn my bread

And now the long roads are ever calling
Cold in the mornings, midday so hot
But I can easily turn my grindstone And keep my nose red, deep in a pot I'm leaving Scotland, I'll head for Cornwall
Forgotten now winter's hungry days
I'll sharpen knives or I'll edge your scissors I'll polish sunshine to pay my way